


When I Get To Where I'm Going

by LayALioness



Category: Powerpuff Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Parent,” Buttercup corrects, sounding drowsy and irritated, although the latter’s just her usual tone of voice. She sounds muffled, because no matter how hot it is, she always has to sleep with three blankets covering her up all the way to her nose. “I caught a look at the file. It said parent, singular. I’m betting it’s either some widowed housewife looking for a free, permanent babysitter, or it’s a child molester looking for someone to star in his kiddie porn.”</p><p>“Jesus, Buttercup,” Blossom says, glaring over at her, even though it doesn’t matter. Buttercup’s eyes are still closed.</p><p>“I think they might surprise you,” Bubbles chirps, unconcerned as always.</p><p>“You say that every time,” Buttercup rolls over again, so her back is to them, probably a sign that she’ll try to get back to sleep. If she had her way, Buttercup would spend her whole life in bed, getting up only for food, or bar fights. “They never do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Get To Where I'm Going

The thing about moving from group home to group home is, you learn to get used to it. The constant motion, the constant knowing that you’re never going to stay there for long, that _home_ doesn’t really have the same definition anymore. For Blossom, home is a black Hefty garbage bag with all your things stuffed in it, because the State didn’t want to shell out for an actual duffel bag. Home is the sound of construction machines and sirens and dogs barking, the smell of urine leaking in from the homeless people in the alleyway out back, the feel of New York smog on her skin and cigarette smoke in her hair even though she quit that particular bad habit back when she was thirteen.

Home is the two girls on either side of her, the only other real constant throughout the last ten years, when she was led up the concrete steps of her first new home, after the car wreck that killed her parents.

She kicks her legs out, so the thick cotton sheet falls off to the floor. It’s heavy, because it’s meant to last all year, through the warm days of summer and the cold winter nights, and it’s stained with brown chocolatey splotches and burgundy period blood. The bed itself isn’t much better; a prime example of government-issued stick furniture, no better than the twenty-dollar camping cots for sale at Gander Mountain, so small that Blossom’s feet hang off the edge.

She hears Bubbles sigh and roll over, to the left of her. Bubbles always has trouble falling asleep when it’s hot out, and this particular heat wave has been the worst one yet.  
“What do you think they’re like?” she asks, voice a soft whisper, landing like a breeze against Blossom’s face. Her breath tastes like mint-chocolate, like the discount york patties that she keeps in a hidden stash under her bed.

“Who?”

“The parents, the ones coming tomorrow morning,” Bubbles says with a dreamy look in her eye. Blossom honestly doesn’t get it--Bubbles has arguably been more disappointed than either her or Buttercup; she’d been put up for adoption on the day she was born, and everyone knows babies are supposed to go quicker, but Bubbles had some weird heart condition that left her in the hospital for three years, and nobody wanted a kid that came with a bunch of expensive medical attachments. But even after sixteen years, she still gets the same rush of excitement whenever a new pair of strangers shows up at the house, going over their mental wish list as they stare down at each of the orphans in turn, even though things never seem to pan out for any of them.

“Parent,” Buttercup corrects, sounding drowsy and irritated, although the latter’s just her usual tone of voice. She sounds muffled, because no matter how hot it is, she always has to sleep with three blankets covering her up all the way to her nose. “I caught a look at the file. It said _parent_ , singular. I’m betting it’s either some widowed housewife looking for a free, permanent babysitter, or it’s a child molester looking for someone to star in his kiddie porn.”

“ _Jesus_ , Buttercup,” Blossom says, glaring over at her, even though it doesn’t matter. Buttercup’s eyes are still closed.

“I think they might surprise you,” Bubbles chirps, unconcerned as always.

“You say that every time,” Buttercup rolls over again, so her back is to them, probably a sign that she’ll try to get back to sleep. If she had her way, Buttercup would spend her whole life in bed, getting up only for food, or bar fights. “They never do.”

“Maybe this one will,” Blossom tries, although she’s still not convinced, herself. Buttercup huffs a laugh into her pillow, because she knows that. Blossom may try to mediate between the other two girls the best she can, but Buttercup knows that deep down, Blossom usually agrees with her darker view of things.

“Adults are shitstains,” Buttercup says, leaving no room for argument. “It’s, like, inevitable. Once you hit eighteen, you’re guaranteed to be awful.”

“Marie isn’t so bad,” Blossom tries, thinking of the heavyset woman, in charge of the group home. She collects pressed flowers that she steals from the neighbors’ window boxes, and lets Bubbles borrow the bad Harlequin romance novels that she keeps neatly stacked on her desk.

“Marie is one of those miniature vacuum fish, that suck on the side of the glass tank and just hang there,” Buttercup says, unimpressed.

“You’re just mad because she didn’t let you join the roller derby team,” Bubbles accuses, and Buttercup sneers.

“Twenty bucks says tomorrow’s parent comes and goes without anyone, just like all the ones before.”

Blossom considers not taking the bet, since it’s always a bad idea to bet against Buttercup, but then she sees Bubbles looking at her, eyes wide enough to trip and fall in if she isn’t careful, and Blossom _hates_ how her sisters always seem to be able to suck her in.

“Deal,” she decides, leaning over so they can shake on it. Outside, the sun starts to rise.

Marie schedules parent days on the weekend, so they won’t interfere with the kids’ education, which is thoughtful in the way most state-employed people aren’t. It’s one of those drowsy Sundays, so hot that Blossom can’t even consider doing anything that takes more effort than just lying down, or turning the page of her textbook, as she works on the problem-set due the next day. Blossom’s out on the back porch, trying to coax the neighborhood stray tomcat indoors, because she has a ten-step plan to domesticate him, and hide him in a box under her bed for the next two years. Buttercup is probably setting fire to something.

The parent arrives at nine in the morning, and Marie rings the metal antique school bell that’s hung up by the stairs, in some misguided attempt at decoration. Blossom finds her sisters waiting for her outside the door of what Marie calls the lounge but which is actually more like a very large coatroom. Marie and a middle-aged man are waiting for them inside.

“Girls,” Marie purrs excitedly, briefly getting caught in the legs of her heavy desk chair when she tries to stand. “This is Professor Hallowsway,” she motions towards the very tall, very thin man, who offers them a small smile.

He looks welcoming enough, not too desperate or oily, like some of the other potential fathers Blossom has met. Mostly he just seems very tired.

“Just ‘Professor’ is fine,” he tells them, and actually shakes each of their hands, which is new, but Blossom can’t say she minds it.

“The Professor has offered to take on all three of you,” Marie says, voice going high pitched from her enthusiasm, which makes sense. She’s probably been systematically pulling each of her box-dyed red hairs out, over the years, from their antics. Buttercup alone has managed to get expelled from three of the four local schools, just because she was bored and wanted something to do.

Bubbles looks close to joining Marie in celebration, and Blossom elbows Buttercup in the ribs.

“You owe me a twenty,” she gloats, and Buttercup glowers.

“Yeah, yeah,” she bites out through her teeth. “We’ll see. I’m still not convinced we aren’t going home with Dr. Jekyl.”

Blossom ignores her, leading their way up the stairs, trash bags in hand. She hopes that this time, Buttercup isn't right.


End file.
